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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26675698">DANCE DANCE EVOLUTION</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aethelflaed/pseuds/Aethelflaed'>Aethelflaed</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thyra279/pseuds/Thyra279'>Thyra279</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>A Whole Lotta Gavotte, Agender Aziraphale (Good Omens), Angst, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Attempt at Humor, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Furious, Can also be read as allosexual too, Cliffhangers, Comedy, Crack, Crack and Angst, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley is Terrible at Dancing, Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Dancing, Demisexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Demisexual Crowley (Good Omens), Disco, Female-Presenting Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Dance, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Crack, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Grey-Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Grey-Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Happy Ending, Humor, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Inspired by Music, Missing Scene, Multi, Mutual Pining, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), Post-Canon, She/Her Pronouns for Aziraphale (Good Omens), Snakehips Tony, Song Lyrics, Swing Dancing, basically some scenes are male presenting some are female presenting for both, emotional whiplash, good omens cold open, well...</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 13:22:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,098</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26675698</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aethelflaed/pseuds/Aethelflaed, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thyra279/pseuds/Thyra279</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Angels don’t dance.</p><p>No matter how many times their demonic friend asks.</p><p>One night, after the Apocalypse, Aziraphale agrees to try - with disastrous consequences.</p><p>It wasn’t supposed to be like this.<br/>--<br/>“Crowley!”</p><p>“Well- what’s your toe doing where my foot wanted to be?”</p><p>“Your foot was entirely-- oh, stop tugging on me and just-”</p><p>Aziraphale found himself stumbling again, pulled in rather rudely, flush up against the spluttering demon.</p><p>“Angel, Aziraphale, there we go, just- look, the music is getting louder, which means we have to move faster, just follow my lead, it’s not that hard-”</p><p>“That is most certainly not what that mea- kindly remove that hand!”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Aspec-friendly Good Omens, GO-Events POV Pairs Works</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>DANCE DANCE EVOLUTION</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for the GO-events POV Pairs Event for the prompt "A missing scene from the cold open"!</p><p>Features Aethelflaed as our dancing demon and Thyra as our anti-dance angel.</p><p>We're... not quite how this came about. But it did. And we're happy that it did. Overall.</p><p>(Note: in one scene, Aziraphale is female-presenting and uses she/her pronouns.)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Soho, Present Day</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Nooooon, rien de rieeeeen… </em>
</p><p>A floorboard creaked, a pile of books crashed onto the floor and a resounding <em>Crowley! </em>rang out across the cavernous old room and yet Edith Piaf powered on, filling the bookshop with her powerful but scratchy voice, spilling onto the streets of Soho through a forgotten window left open since 1974.</p><p>On the dusty shop floor, two eternal beings were doing their best to remain in control of their tempers. </p><p>“That’s my toe, dear.”</p><p>They would not succeed.</p><p>
  <em>...Noooooooon, je ne regrette rieeeeeeen...</em>
</p><p>With a frustrated <em>nnngfk, </em>Crowley grabbed hold of Aziraphale’s hand and attempted to spin him, interrupting the flow of the angel’s steps and making them both stumble.</p><p>“Crowley, for the thirteenth time, I cannot <em>bend like you</em>, that’s my arm, you can’t just- can’t just - <em>Crowley</em>!” </p><p>
  <em>...Ni le bien qu’on m’a fait, ni le mal...</em>
</p><p>“What did I - this is how it works, just- look, just let me lead, alright.”</p><p>“...How precisely are you going to lead when you can’t even find the beat?”</p><p>“I can find the beat just fine, Angel, I’m just improvising a bit,” Crowley growled, stepping on the angel’s toe again. Maybe just a little bit on purpose. </p><p>“Crowley!”</p><p>“Well- what’s your <em>toe</em> doing where my <em>foot</em> wanted to be?”</p><p>“Your foot was entirely- and you wouldn’t recognise the beat if it, well, if it- oh, <em>stop </em>tugging on me and just-”</p><p>
  <em>....C’est payé, balayé, oublié, je me fous du passééééééééééé…</em>
</p><p>Aziraphale found himself stumbling again, pulled in rather rudely, flush up against the spluttering demon.</p><p>“Angel, Aziraphale, there we go, just- look, the music is getting louder, which means we have to move faster, just follow my lead, it’s not that hard-”</p><p>“That is most certainly not what that mea- <em>kindly remove that hand</em>!”</p><p>
  <em>...Nooooooon rien de rieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeen…</em>
</p><p>“Bless it, Angel, how am I ever supposed to dance if you’re just going to argue with me?”</p><p>“I don’t think my arguing is the greatest obstacle to your so-called dancing, Crowley, you’ve proved thoroughly - THAT’S MY TOE AGAIN.”</p><p>A little speck of saliva hit Crowley on the forehead. Neither of them acknowledged it, too caught up in everything else going on. “You stepped on my foot first!”</p><p>“I was <em>supposed </em>to be there, you blasted demon, now if you’d just be so kind as to- oh, never mind!”</p><p>
  <em>…Noooooooooooooooooooooon, je ne regr-</em>
</p><p>There was a snap of ethereal fingers and a little huff from the ancient gramophone.</p><p>“Well.” Aziraphale stepped back, straightening his waistcoat, peering up at the demon with a disappointed frown. “I think we can both agree this was a regrettable mistake.”</p><p>“Might be the only thing we ever agree on.” </p><p>Aziraphale drew a deep breath before he was sure he could speak in an even voice. It came out much softer than he expected. “It was worth a shot, certainly. But as you know, as I’ve told you a million times before, angels do not dance.” </p><p>Crowley simply snarled at him.</p><p>Aziraphale took a half-step towards him, took another look at the seething demon, and picked up the fallen books from the floor instead. “We gave it a, a jolly good go, Crowley.”</p><p>Crowley spun on the heel of his snake-skin boot and marched across the shop floor, heading for the door.</p><p>“Oh, come now, my dear fellow, there’s no need for - Crowley get back here at once! If you would just-”</p><p>Whatever else he said was cut off by the shop floor slamming shut behind Crowley, the glass panes shivering in his wake.</p><p>Outside the shop, Crowley found his crumbled-up packet of cigarettes, lighting the least crushed one with a shaking fingertip. He leaned against the huge glass front of ‘Intimate Books’, the next shop over, imprinting a greasy smear from his hair gel on the sparkling clean window as he looked up at the starless black sky, letting the noises of late-night London wash over his ears.</p><p>It wasn’t supposed to be like this.</p><p>
  <strong>Chicago, 1936</strong>
</p><p>Crowley hadn’t come here for the music.</p><p>In the nearly fifty years since he’d left London, all Crowley had wanted was an assignment he could lose himself in. Something challenging. Something to take his mind off…</p><p>There it was again.</p><p>He took another drink, some horrendous concoction of gin, fruit and far too much sugar that seemed to be all that the clubs and bars in this country sold. He pulled out another cigarette, hoping to wash out the taste.</p><p>He was wasting his time here. Of course he was. Hell’s idea of a “good assignment” was to send you someplace that was already falling apart, laced with corruption, and filled with desperate people pushed to the edge, and ask you to make it worse. There was literally nothing he could do in this city the humans weren’t already doing to each other. He just grabbed a newspaper in the morning, read some headlines to whoever had been sent to check on him this time, and vaguely implied it was all his doing.</p><p>Great job, Crowley. Have another commendation, Crowley. Can’t wait to see what you do next, Crowley.</p><p>It left him with plenty of free time, but, for once in his life, that was exactly what he didn’t want.</p><p>So, drinking it was, though apparently a decade of Prohibition had destroyed America’s taste for decent alcohol. At least the cigarettes were tolerable.</p><p>It wasn’t that he didn’t like the music. There was just <em>so much</em> of it. Trumpets and saxophones and drums and piano, each section shouting to the other and calling back a response. Two saxophones dueled each other from opposite sides of the orchestra pit, each laying down a challenge with speed and unexpected notes that the other met just as eagerly…</p><p>Ok. He <em>did</em> like the music. He just didn’t want to hear it now, simple as that. He wanted to be miserable, and no one – nothing – was going to pull him out of his mood this time until he’d had a good, long sulk.</p><p>And that’s when the music changed.</p><p>He hadn’t really been listening to the singing, which sometimes went too fast for him to follow the words. But suddenly the singer stepped aside, and the beat of the music shifted, almost imperceptibly. The audience – seated at little tables all around the edges of a wide-open floor – surged to their feet, not to applaud, but to hurry to the center, dragging their partners along.</p><p>The music didn’t wait for them, no placid prelude while the dancers lined up in neat rows or evenly spaced groups. It was a race, it was chaos, legs and arms flailing before they’d even secured a spot to dance in, every couple doing something entirely different. Nothing was regular. Nothing was the same.</p><p>Crowley hadn’t come here for music but, bless it, but he couldn’t <em>not</em> watch.</p><p>One couple clutched hands. The force of their motion seemed to throw them apart again and again, but each time they snapped back together as if connected by an elastic, feet kicking every direction, constantly circling, a pair of stars orbiting a central point where their fingers met.</p><p>Another clutched at each other as if afraid to fall, but their movements didn’t suggest fear; they wove across the dance floor, rotating one way, then the other, hips and shoulders swiveling independently, though their hands never wavered from each other’s waists, their eyes never left each other’s faces.</p><p>One man lifted his partner, swung her around his shoulders and put her back on the ground as easy as anything. Another stood in place, clapping along as his girl moved around him with a swishing skirt that never stopped and feet that were little more than a blur.</p><p>It was…<em>nonsense.</em> From one moment to the next, nothing was the same, not the music, not the steps, in one section of the dance floor not even the <em>partners,</em> as young men and women cut in and swapped, passing from one to the next as easily as in a country dance.</p><p>And yet, somehow, it all came together into one writhing, bouncing, improvised <em>unity.</em> Even though there was no plan, no rules, no pattern, it <em>worked.</em></p><p>He wished Aziraphale could see this.</p><p>Crowley took another sip of his drink, angry for thinking that. Aziraphale would <em>hate</em> this, would try to leave as soon as they walked in. He wouldn’t hear the beauty in the chaos of the music, wouldn’t see how the variety of the dancers created something so very satisfying. Would certainly never want to try it himself. There was literally nothing here for him, not like that club in Portland Place, with its pretty young waiters and smooth-talking gentlemen and neat rows of dancers moving in perfect unity...</p><p>Shutting his eyes, Crowley pushed away everything else, everything but the music. He could picture it though, somehow, dancing like the people in the club, every part of him moving independently, pulling the music into him. Aziraphale would be nearby, beside him, in front of him, doing his silly gavotte jig to the beat of the music, circling Crowley, taking his hand, spinning him away and pulling him back again. Crowley would wear a short black skirt, sparkling in the club light, and it would flare around him when he turned, when Aziraphale tossed him in the air and caught him like--</p><p>Crowley’s eyes snapped open and took a puff of his cigarette again. No, Aziraphale wouldn’t see this for what it was. Humanity creating something incredible without a Plan, without enforced order. Something awe-inspiring, as they’d managed again and again. Something that brought them happiness and beauty even in the darkest days…</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Portland Place, London, 1882</strong>
</p><p>Crowley stood outside the servants’ entrance, adjusting his tie – white, with a white shirt. The short jacket was black, at least, and the waistcoat underneath red. He didn’t think the other waiters’ livery had a red waistcoat, but there was only so much he was willing to compromise. He pressed his hair again, making sure it was neatly parted and slicked down, and adjusted his glasses.</p><p>It was the perfect disguise, really. Yes, he’d <em>prefer</em> to enter as one of the wealthy patrons, but he was sure to be noticed that way. The great thing about waitstaff – no one ever noticed them. Never even thought about them. It was like being invisible, which he supposed he could also do, but that was practically cheating.</p><p>He buffed the buttons with his sleeve one more time – making sure they were sufficiently gleaming – and stepped through the door into the hall by the kitchen.</p><p>The plan was to slip in a few hours before dinner, when things were relatively quiet. Have a quick look around, see what was going on, and be out again before anyone noticed.</p><p>The plan immediately fell apart, which really he should have expected.</p><p>“Who on earth are you?” demanded a strong-jawed servant who, by the quality of his clothes and the indignation of his voice, was most likely the butler.</p><p>“Name’s Crowley,” he said, tugging up a bit of infernal power to weave into his words. “You hired me last week.”</p><p>“Did I?” If anything, he looked <em>more</em> suspicious. “Can’t imagine what I was thinking. This your first day?”</p><p>“Yes?” The miracle <em>should have</em> worked. Perhaps there was something going on he’d missed.</p><p>“You’re late,” the butler snapped, propelling him down the hall with a hand on his lower back. “No time to give you the talk now. Just. Bring a tray up to the gentlemen, you’ll be able to hear them, and deliver it to one of the waiters in the hall. We’re short-staffed in the second smoking-room and the third drawing-room today, so you’ll be in one of those. Ask the head waiter. Keep the cups filled, the cigars lit, and give them anything they ask for. <em>Anything,</em> or you can look for a new job.”</p><p>“Right.” A silver tray stood on a table just inside the kitchen door, with tea and coffee pots, steaming hot, as well as a pitcher of milk and a bowl of sugar. He picked them up quickly and started searching the room for stairs. Aha. Over there.</p><p>He glanced back over his shoulder once to see the butler watching him critically. “Can’t you smile?” he demanded. Crowley flashed his teeth. “No, that’s worse. Just. Try not to upset the gentlemen or I’ll let <em>them</em> decide what to do with you.”</p><p>Oh, that sounded promising.</p><p>Crowley took the stairs two at a time, another simple miracle keeping the tea service in place. He’d heard <em>rumors</em> about this place. The Hundred Guineas Club had a certain <em>reputation,</em> the sort of place any truly upstanding gentleman would avoid at all costs, unless he was not, at heart, an upstanding gentleman.</p><p>Not that Crowley cared what humans got up to in their own time. But Aziraphale – he <em>did</em> care. He cared very much about proper behavior, reputation, and being a fine upstanding citizen of whatever civilization he currently inhabited. He wouldn’t be caught <em>fraternizing</em> with that sort.</p><p>Which made it very odd, very odd indeed, that he would be spending so much of his time in such an establishment.</p><p>Crowley had rolled it over in his head for weeks, ever since he’d first seen the angel slipping out of his shop in the middle of the day and heading north up Regent Street to Portland Place. There were only two explanations, as far as he could see.</p><p>Possibility one: Aziraphale was here on Official Heavenly Business, probably trying to influence some wealthy political figure towards whatever passed as The Light these days.</p><p>Possibility two: Aziraphale was entangled in some sort of <em>plot,</em> some off-the-books scheme of his own devising, in far over his head and certain only to get further into trouble every day he continued.</p><p>Which meant the angel was either in need of thwarting, or rescuing.</p><p>Well. Crowley was happy to provide either. Snide comments about <em>fraternizing</em> were optional, but not off the table.</p><p>He emerged into a bustling hallway, the sound of boisterous laughter coming from a room not too far up the hall. Several waiters – in identical livery, all far less fashionable than his – stood outside, and many more walked briskly up and down the hall, carrying papers and cigars and ledgers. Something was off about them, but he couldn’t think what.</p><p>Didn’t matter. Crowley walked up to the first waiter stationed outside the noisiest door – an exceptionally pretty boy, not much more than twenty – and shoved the tray at him. “Boss said you’d want this,” he grunted.</p><p>“And…who are you?” demanded the kid, who should really have more respect for his elders.</p><p>“New waiter. I’m supposed to head to the library.” Aziraphale would almost certainly gravitate towards any collection of books, especially if he could nab a few when no one was looking. He was basically a literate magpie. “Where is it?”</p><p>The kid looked at him askance. “Are you quite certain?”</p><p>“Oi, enough with the attitude, just tell me where they keep the blessed books.”</p><p>Shrugging, he gestured up the hall. “Head that way, look to your left, third door past the ballroom.”</p><p>“Right. Thanks.” He spun on his heel and sauntered off.</p><p>There were plenty of doors along the way, some with a liveried kid posted outside like a guard. Crowley glanced in as many as he could, just to get a sense of the place.</p><p>One room held several overstuffed armchairs, filled by even more overstuffed humans, gossiping and laughing over glasses of amber liquid, the air filled with a haze of tobacco smoke.</p><p>In another room, he saw a card table, four men slapping down spades and hearts, and coins for their wagers. A handsome young waiter walked around them with a decanter of wine, pausing to fill a glass. His shoulder brushed that of the gentleman sitting there, who reached up and patted his back absently.</p><p>It finally occurred to Crowley what was strange about the serving staff. Apart from the scullery maids, he hadn’t seen a single female; and apart from the butler, none of the young men were older than twenty-five, and <em>all</em> were exceedingly attractive.</p><p>Well, that might explain why Crowley’s disguise wasn’t working. He hadn’t really thought of his corporation’s apparent age in centuries, but it was simple enough to wave away thirty years, storing them in a silver vase that immediately tarnished.</p><p>The next room was quiet, with the door only partially ajar, and Crowley stuck his head in quickly, not expecting to see anyone. Instead, he spotted two figures by the window, and his heart leapt when he saw that one was silver-haired and wearing an expensive suit that stretched over his soft middle. No, not Aziraphale, he reprimanded himself. Just a regular human man, looking adoringly into the eyes of his companion, an un-self-conscious smile on his face. The other man – taller, darker, another gentleman rather than one of the young men – stepped closer, whispering and reaching for his companion’s hand.</p><p>Crowley stepped away, a strange emotion caught in his throat.</p><p>None of this was relevant. He needed to find Aziraphale and <em>get out.</em></p><p>The jingle of piano music echoed down the hall – probably the ballroom ahead. The library would be just beyond it, and there, surely, the angel would have his nose buried in some treatise too clever for its own good, or a book of poetry, his brow drawn tight as he learned another layer of the complexity of human existence. He might even spot Crowley coming into the room and…and…</p><p>He glanced at the ballroom as he passed.</p><p>And froze.</p><p>A dozen gentlemen of all ages capered about to the sound of the music. It was upbeat, cheerful, almost dull in its simplicity. They moved in delicate steps, cut between with exaggerated movements to the side and sharp kicks towards the center, as they moved together and apart, around each other, and back into a line. They moved with almost perfect uniformity, now linking their arms to step smoothly to the side, now breaking apart to crisscross the room, clutching their lapels, each flick of the feet synchronized even when they didn’t look at each other.</p><p>And at the center of the crowd…</p><p>He never would have believed it.</p><p>Angels don’t dance. <em>Angels do not dance.</em> How many times had Crowley heard that?</p><p>But there he stood, brilliant cream suit, tartan cravat, exactly as he had been the last time Crowley saw him. No, not exactly.</p><p>Aziraphale was <em>smiling.</em></p><p>He positively beamed as he bounced, hands on his hips, one foot cutting in to take the place of the other, an intricate balancing act, yet he never hesitated, never wavered. Then the men stepped back into a line, linking arms, and <em>oh Satan,</em> his smile only got larger, every kick higher than the last, until he bent nearly double on the final movement, gasping out a cry of utter delight.</p><p>--</p><p>He hadn't meant to. He really had not. He'd only come along at Arthur's request in the chaos of Fanny and Stella's trial, when emotions ran high and the danger to his friends had seemed so immediate. He'd thought he could get away with a few little blessings of the people there, the men who were hunted down, who were treated so terribly these days.</p><p>As it turned out, he could get away with a whole lot more than that.</p><p>He'd milled about the place the first time here, having paid his 100 guineas. The building was handsome, all dark wood and soft, inviting furniture and the staff had been even more handsome, which hadn't surprised him, of course. What <em>had </em>surprised him was the friendliness with which he was greeted, the lack of questions as he spent an increasing amount of time here, hidden away in the less frequented rooms of the club. Here, he was simply one of them, simply Aziraphale. Or Eliza, as he'd been named on his second visit.</p><p>He liked the companionship. Had missed it since… Well. He liked the, the <em>fraternity</em> here. There were no slight comments, no one passing judgement. He was free to do as he wanted, to spend the day browsing the well-stocked little library for the type of literature he'd struggled to find in any of London's more public establishments. To join in on the dining hall debates or a friendly – sometimes very friendly – chat with other patrons in the game rooms. To…</p><p>He'd tried to stay away. He really had.</p><p>He'd been on his way to the study one day, a perfectly innocent activity, keeping resolutely away from the smaller rooms and darker nooks of the place as per usual when he heard a tune. Just a simple, silly little tune.</p><p>It had been so jolly, so obviously happy. The happiest little thing he'd heard in twenty years.</p><p>The dancers too, moving in perfect unison, creating something so positive, so much greater than themselves. They'd looked so happy, too.</p><p>He had only meant to watch.</p><p>Ten years in, Aziraphale found himself in the middle of the row once again, warm and slightly out of breath, looking left and right between kicks. Kicks perfectly in time with the gay little tune from the piano, perfectly in time with those of the men on either side of him. It was pure, unadulterated joy, a joy he hadn't felt in decades. There was a twinge of danger to it too, to the excitement of the dance, of doing something that he should not have. Angels don't dance, of course they don't. But Aziraphale 'Eliza' Fell might, hidden away in the intricate halls of the club. Eliza <em>did </em>dance. No one would ever need to know.</p><p>Not even Crowley. Oh, how he wished that he could see him here, show him the steps, finally – <em>finally</em> – take his hand and guide his foot and show him just how easy it was to follow the rhythm, the beat, the melody of the music if one only <em>listens</em>, lets oneself go along with the greater whole. To touch him and set him right and move with him, move in perfect unison and be in the moment, be happy and joyful and forget everything else.</p><p>He looked left and right again as he coupéd forward, completed a full contretemps – <em>very</em> successfully, he thought – hands holding on to his lapels, elbows linked with the humans beside him as the piano plucked away at keys an octave higher, just a little quicker now, there, then a high kick, oh yes, and there was very little time to think of anything else, to think of Crowley or – high kick, just a little higher – or great rooms in Munich – kick – pale blue walls and couples dancing and – kick – no room to think of, of Barcelona or moustaches or – kick – or anything else apart from the piano, the muffled bumps of his companions and himself as they jumped and hit the polished wood floor again, so perfectly in unison, deliciously in tune, turned and kicked, kicked again. No time to remember anything other than to stretch one’s toes and dip before turning left – there, yes, for another croisé to the side, no space to feel anything other than the rush of joy at a well-executed turn, a final flourish, arms out wide and proud as the final notes rang out. William pressed a kiss to his cheek in a rush of merriment and laughter and he poked him playfully in return, just for fun, interacting with humans more easily than he had for, well, since the very beginning, really.</p><p>"Well that was a lovely warm-up, my dear fellows, but do put in a bit of effort next time." The humans laughed, laughed with him, and it was wonderful and joyous and happy and if only Crowley could see, if he could only show h-</p><p>"Shall we go again?" he said, immediately, getting into position, cueing the music, and happily, the lovely humans, his friends, agreed.</p><p>--</p><p>Aziraphale laughed – <em>laughed</em> – face glowing with pride as he held out his arms looking to each side for approval. And when the music ended…the men all gathered around, shaking hands, clapping each other on the back. One of them even gave Aziraphale a kiss on the cheek, and the angel simply laughed harder, nudging the fellow in the stomach with his elbow and saying something that set the whole group off.</p><p>“Shall we go again?” Not even a hint of hesitation in Aziraphale’s voice, and the crowd chorused their agreement.</p><p>
  <em>He’s happy.</em>
</p><p>How was that possible? They’d only fought two decades ago. The sting of the words still echoed in Crowley’s head but Aziraphale – Aziraphale –</p><p>The piano started again, and the dancers began to move as one, like the music made manifest, and Aziraphale was a perfectly-fit part of the smoothly running whole.</p><p>And Crowley watched from the doorway, a broken cog cast aside.</p><p>But oh. It was beautiful. When he smiled like that, he was beautiful.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Soho, Present Day</strong>
</p><p>The old wooden doors squeaked open more slowly and much more peevishly than they usually did when Crowley made an appearance at the bookshop. Or a reappearance as this night would have it. Aziraphale dipped out of the room as soon as the doors creaked open, before Crowley even made it across the threshold. </p><p>He returned a moment later with a bottle of good port and two glasses.</p><p>“It might have worked, my dear. It was good to try.” He bent over the coffee table to pour, straightening up again with a very full glass. He kept his eyes on the rim of the glass as he stepped across the floor, avoiding pile of book after pile of book, compensating for the overly full glass with soft hips and a loose wrist. There he was, his demon, all dashing black clothes and silver neck... thing. </p><p>He held out the glass ever so carefully, using every ounce of tact and diplomacy he’d perfected through the ages, and finally looked up at the demon with a soft smile, a gentle little thing.</p><p>Crowley was frowning at him, sunglasses perched at the top of his head.</p><p>Aziraphale nearly dropped the glass.</p><p>“Angels <em>do</em> dance, Aziraphale.” </p><p>The angel tried another smile. It had infuriatingly little effect on the demon.</p><p>“We most certainly do not, Crowley,” he said, in the same airy voice he’d used to correct young Warlock’s transgressions.</p><p>Crowley still hadn’t moved, a few fingers loosely stuffed down the pocket at his hip. “I saw you, Angel. Back then. At your… club.”</p><p>A tiny drop of port <em>did </em>escape the glass now, £12 worth dripping onto the floor between them. </p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>“Yup.” Crowley finally moved, shifting his weight onto the other foot. He accepted the glass, sticky on one side. “You were very good.”</p><p>“Oh? Thank you.”</p><p>“Why’d you never say?”</p><p>It was Aziraphale’s turn to freeze. “Oh, I- I don’t know. I wasn’t <em>supposed </em>to, and we- well, it’s barely come up since, has it?” He watched Crowley down the 54-year-old port in one go. “Why didn’t <em>you </em>ever tell me? That you knew?”</p><p>“Dunno,” Crowley sniffed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “It seemed private. Not because of the- the <em>place</em>, really. But you...”</p><p>Aziraphale said nothing, watched him closely from just a few feet away, saw how the lines on his forehead deepened in exactly the same way they had for 6000 years whenever he considered his words carefully.</p><p>“It seemed so intimate. You looked so happy.”</p><p>“<em>Oh.</em>”</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>New York, 1975</strong>
</p><p>There were an awful lot of people here in what was clearly too little space, even if Crowley had miraculously managed to get them an entire plastic sofa to themselves. It was the least he could do, really, after dragging her along to this Hellho- discotheque.</p><p>The sofa squeaked horribly every time Aziraphale moved, caught the back of her legs when she didn’t. She hadn't quite figured out these knee-length skirts and she kept dipping her long, straightened hair into her drink and it was hot in here, hot and humid with the collective expenditures of hundreds of sweaty humans.</p><p>And one sweaty demon.</p><p>One sweaty, moustached demon in a truly horrible synthetic silk shirt, far too open at the front, revealing far too much chest hair. Aziraphale couldn't help but sta- glare at it every once in a while, at the almost unseemly amount of hair the demon was sporting this decade. </p><p>He didn't <em>quite</em> blend in but then again, Crowley never did, not entirely. Aziraphale had never been certain whether it came about through his own design or because of his non-human nature. Or perhaps, a little voice reminded her, as it always did, she simply paid the demon more attention than she ought to.</p><p>Well that was neither here nor there, a thought for another day. The fact of the much more pressing matter was that Crowley was very much <em>not</em> blending in currently, flapping his arms about, pointing in every which direction – Aziraphale had attempted to follow the first few times he’d done it, fascinated, but the demon didn’t appear to be pointing at anything in particular at all… </p><p>Odd. Very odd indeed.</p><p>Even more inexplicably, Crowley’s lovely head had been violated by a rather enormous moustache and, well, it was far from the first time he’d worn one, of course not, but surely… surely it had never been quite this <em>prominent.</em></p><p>Of all the looks Crowley had worn, this was far from Aziraphale’s favourite. It was odd. The whole decade was so <em>odd. </em>The dancing was especially odd, people writhing about the place, so <em>very</em> close to each other: It barely counted as dancing, what they were doing, she thought, glancing at Crowley. There was no coherence to their moves, no overall plan or purpose. No proper footwork, even.</p><p>There <em>was </em>rhythm – rhythm more obvious, more in-your-face than it had been for millennia, in fact. A nice bass that practically seeped into your bones, all but made you move along with it.</p><p>Aziraphale froze, immediately, when she realised that her white leather boot was dipping up and down in time with the music, some insistent mix of a galloping beat and horns and cymbals and what Aziraphale was fairly certain was a- a <em>cowbell</em>. </p><p>It, too, insisted that she join in on the dance, invited her to move. </p><p>Her crossed leg remained stubbornly still, foot tensing up with effort not to move.</p><p>Angels do not dance, after all. At least not where others may find out that they do.</p><p>She uncrossed her legs, crossed them the other way instead for something to do, to stop them tapping along. Took a sip of her blue cocktail and concentrated on that instead. </p><p>It was sickly sweet, this thing Crowley had plied her with as he pushed her towards the sofa, plopped down next to her. <em>Blue Hawaiians, they’re all the rage, Angel, go on, just try it, all the rage I promise you. </em></p><p>It coated her tongue in coconut and pineapple and- and, well, rather a lot of alcohol, really. There was a pineapple wedge split on the rim of the glass, its juice had long since bled down the side. It made her fingers sticky. </p><p>The bartender had made the interesting choice of placing a cocktail cherry on top of the pineapple slice and then, in an unexpected stroke of genius, speared the entire configuration with a tiny pink umbrella. She rather liked it, the little umbrella.</p><p>If she was entirely honest with herself, she rather liked the whole thing. It was bold and flavourful, a little ridiculous, but that was part of the charm, really, as she was fast finding out. It was an adventure, letting loose and having fun, letting one’s fingers and teeth be stained blue from the curaçao.</p><p>Her eyes were back on Crowley long before she noticed, watching him move further and further away from the beat, tutting to herself as he grabbed it and strangled it and writhed so entirely out of tune with everything going on around him that a few people next to him stopped to watch him too.</p><p>She watched as he attempted some odd little kick-jump in his flared trousers and nearly stumbled and for just a moment, their eyes met and his moustache drooped and she couldn’t help herself, couldn’t help but smile at him in encouragement and nodding her drink at him, encouraging him onwards in his dancing. His <em>attempt </em>at dancing. </p><p>And he looked happy, so thoroughly free as he moved again, as he failed to pick up the rhythm and continued to flail about, looking entirely ridiculous and so unusually happy and before she knew it, he was there again, next to her, reaching out a hand, breathing heavily in his synthetic shirt and she almost took it, heady on the heat and the dark and the flashing lights and Crowley’s delight and the Blue Hawaiian<strong>. </strong>She was so <em>very </em>close, so very close to reaching out, but thankfully she remembered herself and smiled and shook her head.</p><p>And her foot started tapping along again not long after, and this time, she didn’t quite manage to stop it even when Crowley looked over and saw and grinned at her, white teeth blue from their drinks beneath his ridiculous moustache.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Soho, Present Day</strong>
</p><p>Somehow, with four more generous pours of port down each of them, they’d ended up blasting out a disco track. There was a <em>lot </em>of cowbell in this one, clunking out the beat. </p><p>
  <em>Clunk - clunk - clunk - clunk</em>
</p><p>
  <em>...Yesterday I was one of the lonely people...</em>
</p><p>The beat could not be more obvious.</p><p>Crowley had hit it once, quite by accident, when a violent sneeze had overtaken him.</p><p>Aziraphale watched, leaning back against his desk, arms crossed stubbornly in front of him. He tapped out the rhythm of the music on his forearm, accompanying his fingers with a - yes, fine, he’d admit it, a slightly irritating: “There - there - there - there - there-...”</p><p>
  <em>...Where did you come from, baby...</em>
</p><p>Crowley stuck out his tongue, jerked his hips to the side, and pointed East-and-beat-and-then-beat-and-West. </p><p>
  <em>...How did you know, I needed you… </em>
</p><p>It wasn’t 4/4 time. It wasn’t any beat known to humanity. It was borderline frightening, quite frankly.</p><p><em>Breathe,</em> he reminded himself. Crowley is happy. He’s enjoying himself. That’s the important thing.</p><p>
  <em>...How did you know I needed you so badly, how did you know I'd give my heart gladly...</em>
</p><p>Crowley rolled his arms around each other and pointed, then again, and again, possibly indicating every window and door in the shop. “I’m just trying to <em>show </em>you, Angel.”</p><p><em>Breathe.</em> “Show me <em>what,</em> precisely? My escape routes?”</p><p>“I am <em>trying,”</em> he attempted a full-body spin, knocking over an ancient Chinese vase in the process. Aziraphale mended it with a tired snap. The seventh of the evening. “I am <em>trying </em>to show you how much <em>fun</em> dancing can be.” He bent up his extraordinarily long leg, grabbed his ankle, and began hopping in place.</p><p>Now there wasn’t even any beat <em>whatsoever.</em></p><p>...<em>I BELIEVE IN MIRACLES</em>...</p><p>“I don’t <em>need</em> you to show me, I remember it perfectly well! <em>Proper </em>dancing! Even if the rest of the planet - and <em>all </em>its inhabitants,” he gave Crowley a glare for good measure, “have forgotten.”</p><p>In response, Crowley turned his back towards him, hands on his knees and- <em>Good Lord.</em></p><p>...<em>SINCE YOU CAME ALONG...</em></p><p>“Is this proper dancing, Angel?!” the demon shouted over the music. He’d backed up really- really <em>very</em> close to Aziraphale, squatted down, hands on his knees and started shaking… shaking his backside at him. “Is this what you meant?!”</p><p>.<em>.. YOU SEXY THING... </em></p><p>“Don’t be absurd.” Aziraphale took a step back, crossed his arms sternly in front of him. </p><p>
  <em>...KISS me, you sexy thing...</em>
</p><p>Unfortunately, the demon did too, shuffling even closer.</p><p>“COME ON, AZIRAPHALE, TWERK WITH ME!” His bottom seemed to have taken on a life of its own, thrusting up and down furiously in the demon’s far too tight trousers. “TWERK IT GUUUURRRRL!”</p><p>“Crowley, I do not allow such displays of - of - of -!”</p><p>Crowley suddenly stood up straight, leaping at Aziraphale to pump his fist in his face. “Come on, Angel! Dance! You know you want to!”</p><p>“I most certainly--”</p><p>
  <em>...I love the way you TOUCH ME darling...</em>
</p><p>“Crowley, what on <em>Earth</em> is this song?”</p><p>
  <em>...You sexy thing…</em>
</p><p>“It’s a disco classic!”</p><p>For a moment, just the briefest moment, Aziraphale wished Armageddon had actually happened.</p><p><em>...It's sextacy</em> <em>…</em></p><p>Aziraphale snapped…</p>
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